As a child, most of my snow memories, though full of family and friends, are just cold and wet. I remember complaining about being out in the snow, whining about cold fingers and frozen toes, resenting my cumbersome snowy weather gear. I was a lousy snowboarder, a clumsy sledder, and almost always did a face plant at some point. I was self-conscious of runny mascara and hat-hair through middle school ski trips, and concerned about bulky ski pants in high school. I did a good job of pretending most of the time, but snow and I weren’t connecting on any level.

Right now, in downtown Portland, there is an inch of perfect, powdery snow on the sidewalks, with four more predicted this weekend. It’s unusual snow for this part of the NW, and it sends everyone scurrying, driving wildly, huddling indoors, locking the windows. It’s the only thing on the news, the only thing anyone is talking about. It’s a big deal, this snow.

This winter, I find myself craving the snow. Needing the snow. Out in the snow as everyone else is hiding and cuddling, I’m breathing in snowflakes. I’m not sure how I transitioned from a shorts-loving summer creature to someone who wishes for winter, but this snow is as lovely as it is shiver-inducing.

There is a perfection that comes only with snow, if you can shut your eyes to the dangerous roads and the school closures and the ice, there is an all-consuming silence, the muting of a world, an entire city, hushed and restful, contented, frozen, calm. This snow is transporting me to all of my best snow moments, the ones that remain tucked in my memory… the snowmen and tunnels and silent nights. This is a very Christmasy snow.